


Best Laid Plans

by orphan_account, solafiamma



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-08
Updated: 2004-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solafiamma/pseuds/solafiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Small Change challenge (although it's so late you'd think I'd be embarrassed to admit it). Thanks to Budge once again for the beta. Feedback? Why, yes, please. Just leave comment below or email me at solafiamma@gmail.com.</p><p>Disclaimer: It's fiction, folks.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Small Change challenge (although it's so late you'd think I'd be embarrassed to admit it). Thanks to Budge once again for the beta. Feedback? Why, yes, please. Just leave comment below or email me at solafiamma@gmail.com.
> 
> Disclaimer: It's fiction, folks.

  
_Drive all night, take some speed  
Wait for the sun to shine down on me._   


 

When JC opens his eyes the room is dark and unfamiliar, his head is thick with sleep and the residue of last night's partying, and there's a decidedly unpleasant smell in the air. It takes him almost ten minutes to wake up enough to remember that the room is unfamiliar because he's in a hotel and to realize that the horrible smell is coming from  _him_ , an almost palpable reek of sour sweat, cigarette smoke and stale sex.

It takes him another ten minutes of blinking, stretching and trying not to breathe through his nose to remember he doesn't have any pants.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"Speak to me, baby."

"Um, Chris?"

"JC? Hey, dude. Just, uh, hang on a sec." Chris sounds distracted and JC worries that he's woken him up which wouldn't be good because even though Chris tends to need very little sleep and wakes up on a whisper, he also tends be cranky if he's woken up before he's ready. "Hah! Okay, yeah, sorry about that."

"No, it's fine. Are you still in L.A.?"

"Uh huh."

"And are you, like, busy? I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No, man. It's cool. Just whipping Justin's ass at Halo. Again. What's up?"

It seems awfully early for Justin to be up, but maybe they haven't been to bed yet. Which also wouldn't be good, because if Chris is drunk, he's not going to be able to drive, but then again, he can always take a cab, so.

"I was hoping. Well. Could you maybe-. Do you think you could do me a favour? Like, I really need you to do me a favour, Chris. Really."

"What do you need, C?" Chris' voice is suddenly serious.

"Could you maybe go to my place and pick up a pair of pants for me? And bring them here? Please?" He says it quickly, matter-of-factly, like he's asking Chris to pass him the salt or read him the horoscope section of the newspaper. If he doesn't make a big deal out of this, maybe Chris won't notice the request is a bit weird. Except, of course, it's Chris.

"Where  _are_  you, dude?"

"Um." JC gropes for the bedside lamp and flicks it on, scanning the room for some sort of clue. "Uh, the Beverly Hilton? Just hang on." There's a card on the bedside table, one of those laminated menus you hang on the door if you want to pre-order breakfast. He studies it for a minute, appalled as usual at how much it costs just to get lukewarm eggs and soggy toast delivered to your room 

"C?"

"No, sorry. It's the Four Seasons. In, uh," he consults the card again. "In Beverly Hills, I guess. Can you bring them, though? My pants?"

"You're at the Four Seasons with no pants?" There's some muttering in the background, but JC can only make out occasional words, like "hotel", "no fucking pants" and "crazy goddamned bastard". Then Chris is back saying, "Justin would like to know, and yeah, I'm curious too, just what the hell are you doing at the Four Fucking Seasons without your clothes?"

JC sighs. He should have known there was no way this wasn't going to be humiliating.

"Look, can't I just tell you when you get here?"

"Well, no. No, you absolutely can't, Chasez. Because when I get there, you'll  _have_  your pants, won't you, and then you're not going to have any reason to tell me. So. Go, dude. Why are you prancing around naked in the heart of Beverly Hills?"

"Fuck. You're so annoying. You're a total asshole. And so's Justin. I hate you both. Look. I had my pants when I got here. It's not like I forgot to put them  _on_  or anything. They just kind of aren't here any more. And I am. And I  _need_  them, Chris, so come  _on_ , will you please stop fooling around and just get me some pants already?"

"Isn't this why you have a personal assistant?"

"I'm not calling him! God, Chris, do you want me to just  _die_  of embarrassment? I was kind of hoping to get out of this situation with a  _little_  bit of dignity. Which is why I called you. Which, you know, obviously I'm still drunk because what was I thinking?"

"Yeah, seriously, dude. What  _were_  you thinking? Why didn't you call Lance?"

"I  _did_  call Lance. He was almost as annoying as you, and he couldn't help anyway because he's back in Mississippi. He left yesterday." 

"Then it looks like you don't have much choice. Come on, tell us. What happened to your pants?"

"Fine. What _ever_. You're so immature. It was this chick, I was with this chick and she got pissed at me and threw my pants out the window. That's it. End of story. You happy now?"

He waits patiently through three or four minutes of hysterical laughter, Chris and Justin cackling away like demented cartoon witches. Finally, Chris pulls himself together enough to gasp, "Sorry, sorry." He doesn't sound remotely sorry, and JC would probably hang up if he could think of someone else to call. "I know it isn't funny." Muffled giggling. "But, dude, what did you  _do_  to her?"

"Nothing. Well, you know. The usual." More muffled giggling. "Fuck. You guys are so immature. It's just, afterwards, um. I kind of told her that she looked like this guy I used to date. You remember, whatshisname? Malloy? Maury? Molly?"

"Dude, I'm pretty sure that even you've never dated a guy named Molly."

"Oh shut up. You remember him, I know you do. He wore a black leather trench coat all the time? And leather pants? And he had a shaved head?"

"Toby?"

"Yeah, yeah. Toby. I told her she looked like Toby, except I didn't use his name of course, because I couldn't remember it, but it was uncanny, man. She had that same unnerving stare, the same big feet, the same skin, all pale and blue-ish like she'd lived in a basement her whole life. I mean, her coat even had the same slit up the back, like that dude in the Matrix, and she was only wearing one earring, just like Toby. Except hers was a little silver hand and his was just a stud. But really, she could have been his twin."

"Well, except for the tits, I'm guessing. Toby wasn't much in the mammary department, as I recall."

"But, Chris! Neither was she! Teeny, tiny, itsy, microscopic little tits. From the waist up she could have totally been a guy!"

"Ah. Tell me that's not one of the comparisons you actually made to her face."

"Look, I know I was an idiot, okay? I really don't need you to tell me how big an ass I was. But, you know, in my defence, I  _was_  totally wasted and I  _like_  small tits, so. Well. Big tits, too, really, but whatever. And anyway, that wasn't really the part she got mad about. Well, she did, but she got over it. After a while. It's just, you know, when we started getting back into things, I must have passed out, just for a few seconds. Oh, quit laughing. Like you've never. I was really tired, man, and totally fucked up. Anyway, it was just for a couple of seconds, but when I woke up I was a bit disoriented and I guess I had a flashback or something because I opened my eyes and there was Toby and I thought 'oh cool' and reached for him and, you know, there wasn't anything there. Well, not what I was expecting, anyway. So I just freaked and yelled, 'Holy shit, dude, what happened to your dick?' She just flipped on me, man."

"You need a keeper, dude. I swear to god. Why didn't you just call the front desk and ask someone to go out and get the pants for you? They would've done it. I'm sure it wouldn't have been the weirdest thing they've ever been asked to do, either."

"I would have called. Probably. But, you know, she apologized for being a bitch and went down to get them. Only I was really drunk and stoned and shit, so I kind of went to sleep while I was waiting for her to come back. If she did come back, I didn't hear her, and then this morning when I looked out the window, no pants. So. I don't know what happened to them, if she kept them or threw them away or if somebody just picked them up and walked off with them or what. They're not here, anyway."

"Maybe she left them at the front desk for you."

"You know, I'm not completely helpless, Chris. I  _did_  check. I called down before I called you. God, this is fucking torture. Are you going to bring me some pants or are you going to be a bitch about this for the rest of my life?"

Chris laughs. "Don't whine. I'll get the pants. Any pants in particular, or do you want me to surprise you?"

"Just some jeans. Or maybe some cords. Not the pink ones, though."

"Not a hope in hell I'd be caught dead with those in my possession. What if I had a heart attack on the way over? My rep would be shot to hell."

"And can you maybe bring a shirt, and some underwear? And deodorant?" He runs his tongue around his mouth. "And some toothpaste and a toothbrush? And, um, my conditioner? Cause they never have the right stuff."

"Sure. Why not. Want me to throw in a couple of rolls of toilet paper, just in case Four Seasons asswipe isn't up to standard?"

"Maybe you should go fuck yourself. After you've brought me my pants. Please."

  
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

JC has almost fallen asleep again by the time Chris gets there. He staggers to the door, remembering to clutch a pillow to his groin for modesty's sake. Not that Chris hasn't seen him naked before, but there's always the chance that it's somebody else. Somebody returning his pants, for example. 

It's Chris though, whistling  _Hello Dolly_  and carrying a small pink suitcase festooned with bright blue and yellow daisies. JC stares at the case, trying to remember when he bought it and, more importantly,  _why_  he bought it. It doesn't look remotely familiar.

"That's not mine," he finally says.

Chris just grins at him. "No, I know. I brought your shit over in a plastic bag, but when I walked into the lobby, it just seemed kind of tacky. I figured you wouldn't want to check out carrying a grocery bag, so when I saw this in the gift shop window, I couldn't resist. It just seemed so  _you_."

"You know, you're not anywhere near as funny as you think you are," he says, yanking the suitcase away from Chris.

Chris looks at him and laughs. "That's okay, freakshow. You're more than funny enough for both of us." He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face. "Phew. Fuck, man, you totally stink. You smell like a six week old corpse. That someone jerked off all over."

"That's disgusting, Chris."

Chris isn't listening, though. He pushes past JC into the room, and as soon as he's across the threshold the atmosphere shifts from flat to electric. It's always this way with Chris. He exists at the epicentre of his own personal force field, the air just seems to crackle around him. When JC first met Chris, he had been alternately attracted and repelled, never sure whether to relax and be swept into the vortex or to start looking for a safe place to hide. It had been amusing to watch Chris scatter that manic energy around him like dandruff during rehearsals and interviews, but decidedly alarming to find it focused directly on himself. 

Over the years, though, he's become accustomed to it, has come to expect and even depend on it. When he's feeling tired and wrung out, JC gravitates toward Chris, walking up behind him to rest his hands on Chris' shoulders or squeezing in next to him on the couch to borrow some of that energy. Borrowing energy. That's how he thinks of it. Chris never minds; he has more than enough to share. JC has also found that being the sole focus of that manic attention has its definite advantages. The handful of times he's slept with Chris rank among his most memorable sexual experiences.

Right now Chris is checking out the hotel room in the same thorough way he always has, peering into the bathroom and the closet, opening all the drawers in the dresser and bedside tables, flicking the TV on and off a few times, examining the contents of the mini bar and, finally, kicking off his shoes, leaping onto the bed and jumping up and down a few times.

"Hey, good bed! Great spring action. Whoo!" He gives a final bounce and settles, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. "So, tell me. Why'd you bring her here? You still have a bed at home. I saw it."

"I don't know. I'd never met her before, and she was a bit weird. It just seemed safer. She might have been an axe murderer or something, for all I knew."

"Yeah, because for sure she'd never use the axe in a hotel room."

"Well, okay. But she didn't know who I was. And if I'd brought her back to my place, she would have seen the photographs and she would have maybe figured it out, and I just thought it might be nice to have some normal sex for a change. Sometimes it just feels good to do it with someone you know isn't only there for your name. You know?"

Chris nods, watching with apparent absorption as JC lifts the suitcase onto the bed and tries to open it. "Yeah, I know, dude. Sucks to be you."

"Shut up. I'm not complaining about my life, I know how lucky I am. It's just. Oh, fuck. I don't know." 

And he doesn't, really. Chris is right. Most guys would probably kill to have his life, to be able to sleep with half a dozen different people every night, if that's what he wants, to have beautiful women--and men--scribbling their phone numbers onto napkins and matchbooks and random articles of clothing for him, to never have to walk into a club not knowing whether or not he's going to be able to find someone to leave with. He's been pretty satisfied with his life up until recently. More than satisfied. Ecstatic. It's just that, lately, it's all started feeling a little bit empty. The constant flow of unfamiliar faces and bodies through his bedroom has become monotonous, and frequently tedious. Sometimes he brings people home, then finds he can't even muster the enthusiasm to do anything with them. He'll just leave them ooh-ing and ah-ing in his living room and sneak off to bed alone, feeling like an idiot.

Most of his old friends are settling down now, getting married or moving in together, making commitments. It's been going on for a while, but it hadn't really mattered that much to him until Joey told him he'd proposed to Kelly and JC's first reaction had been a startling rush of jealousy. Not that he wanted marry either Kelly or Joe himself, it wasn't that at all. In fact, he's really happy for them. He knows this is a decision Joey has been struggling with since Briahna was born and maybe even before that. It's just that in the few seconds after the announcement left Joey's lips, before JC even had time to say "hey, dude, that's awesome," he had a glimpse of his own future unfolding in front of him as a long unbroken chain of meaningless one night stands and awkward mornings after. It had left him feeling lonely and a little lost, like the only kid at the birthday party who hasn't won a prize. A residue of restlessness and dissatisfaction still lingers at the back of his mind, but he's learning to ignore it.

JC struggles with the zipper for a few more minutes, but he can't get the catch to release. He picks the suitcase up, shakes it and slams it back on the bed, punching it once for good measure. "You want to give me a hand here? I can't get the stupid thing open."

Chris smiles, reaches into his pocket and tosses him a key. "You're too easy, Chasez. But you're awfully cute when you're mad." 

"Asshole." 

He's not too angry, though. At least Chris seems to have brought everything he asked for. He hums happily to himself, as he pulls out a pair of cords, a tee shirt and a plastic bag full of toiletries. He looks over at Chris to thank him, but the quickly hidden smirk on Chris' face stops him. Looking back at the pile on the bed, he sees what Chris is finding so damned amusing and why he'd found the suitcase so irresistible. The tee shirt is bright pink with a yellow flower appliqued in the centre, and the cords are powder blue, almost the exact shade of the daisies on the suitcase. JC's going to look like a total dork when he carries the bag through the lobby. Whatever, at least he has pants. 

"Um, where's the underwear?"

"Folded into the tee shirt, dude. Didn't want them to get lost." 

JC shakes open the tee shirt and a filmy leopard print thong floats onto the bed. He glances over at Chris who is smiling innocently at him.

"Those okay? I couldn't figure out what drawer you kept your undies in so I took the liberty of buying those for you as well. Are they the right size?"

"I'm just. I'm going to have a shower now." JC picks up the pile of clothes and heads toward the bathroom. "Um, do you want to hang around and maybe go to breakfast? My treat, since you were nice enough to get my stuff."

"It's three in the afternoon, Chasez. I had breakfast like a million years ago. But yeah, I'll wait. You go get clean." 

"Stay out of the minibar, man. That stuff costs a fortune," JC calls back from the bathroom. There's no answer, which means Chris probably already has his head stuffed in the fridge. "I mean it, Chris. You touch anything in there and you're paying for it. Oh, and can you please pass me the conditioner and toothpaste and shit?" He turns around, almost bumping into Chris who's right there in the bathroom doorway holding out the toiletry bag. "Oh, cool Thanks."

He empties the bag, Chris watching him silently from the doorway. "Um, you can go watch TV, if you want." 

"Yeah. No, thanks. I think I'll watch you instead. You're more amusing. And also? This way if you drop the soap, I'll be right there. It'll be like an interactive prison movie."

JC laughs and gives Chris a little push to get him out of the room, but he might as well be trying to shift a refrigerator or maybe the Statue of Liberty. Chris doesn't budge, just runs his eyes slowly over JC in a steady head to toe inventory that makes JC want to either wrap himself in a towel or get down on his knees. Before he has a chance to do either, Chris' hands are on him, sliding around to pull him in tight, stroking his back, squeezing his ass, sketching a trail of heat across his skin. 

"C'mere," Chris mutters into his neck when JC tries to pull back. "Mmm. Fuck, you feel good." 

And he's right, it does feel good, it feels fucking fantastic, but they can't do this right now because, because, "Yeah, but wait. Wait, Chris. Let go. You just said I stink. I'm gross. I need a shower, dude."  
.  
"No point. I'm just going to get you dirty again. I like you stinky. It's hot."

JC starts to snicker, but then there are teeth against his throat, the cool tile of the bathroom wall against his back, the solid weight of Chris pinning him in place, and the sound that finally makes it past his lips has very little to do with amusement. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By the time Chris drops him off at home, JC is feeling pretty good. His hangover has completely disappeared, he's got pants and only three people snickered when he walked out of the hotel with his hot pink suitcase and matching t-shirt. Best of all, he feels more alive than he has for weeks -- clear-headed, refreshed and optimistic. He smiles happily as he unlocks his door. Sex with Chris is like that, wild and quirky, completely unpredictable, and it leaves you feeling like you've just had a really thorough spring cleaning. It's like driving really, really fast late at night when there's hardly anyone else on the roads and it seems like you could go forever without touching the horizon -- a total physical and mental rush.

If he ever does find someone to settle down with, JC thinks as he steps into the house, that person will have to be able to make sex as exciting as Chris does. Otherwise, JC will just have to cheat once in a while. Like anytime Chris asks him to, for example. 

As he turns to punch in his alarm code, JC pauses, fingers poised over the keypad. Chris. _Chris_. Why not Chris? Chris is single. He's smart, and funny, and he doesn't hang out with JC because JC's famous. He's so good in bed that JC would never even think about all the other sex he'd be giving up. And he's one of JC's best friends, so JC loves him already. What could be more perfect? 

There's just one small problem. JC's had sex with Chris a grand total of maybe seven times. He never knows when it's going to happen, or where it's going to happen, and when it's over, he's never able to figure out how to make it happen again. 

The first time, they were in Germany. They hadn't been there long, maybe four or five months. Long enough for the novelty to have worn thin, excitement giving way to an endless sameness of day after day of rehearsal, performance, interviews, media coaching, dingy hotel rooms and no privacy. It wasn't so much homesickness he felt as it was frustration with never having a moment to himself. JC loved the guys, more all the time, but working with them all day, hanging out with them in the evenings and sharing a room with at least one and sometimes two of them every night was beginning to take its toll. Even back in Florida, when they'd spent crazy hours rehearsing and performing, he'd always managed to grab a few hours alone to unwind, to just kick back and let his mind chill. After six months of group togetherness, JC had thought his head was about to implode.

At first he managed to keep the tension all neatly tamped down. None of the other guys seemed to be having privacy issues. As far as JC could tell, they were having the time of their lives, and he didn't want to hurt their feelings by telling them they were driving him round the bend. He was pretty sure Lance was kind of sensitive about stuff like that, and Chris too, in his own weird way, and he didn't want them to feel rejected or maybe even get pissed off with him for being such a downer.

So he sucked it up, pretended everything was fine, and tried to spend as much time as possible in bed. Eventually, though, the resentment started leaking out around the edges. He found himself getting short tempered and cranky, snapping at the other guys over the smallest thing, especially Justin who was just too young to know when to back off, and Chris who was too hyper to back off even when he knew he should. 

It came to a head one afternoon when JC couldn't find his water bottle after rehearsal and pitched a tantrum of embarrassing proportions. He yelled, threw his towel and sweatshirt and shoes, and accused Justin of hiding the water bottle, and all the while the guys just stood there with their mouths open looking as shocked as if he'd lobbed a grenade across the room.

Until Chris walked over, grabbed a fistful of JC's sweaty t-shirt and shoved him back against the wall. He ordered everyone else out of the room and then stared at JC until JC wasn't even angry anymore, just tired and embarrassed.

"What the  _fuck_  is wrong with you, man?" 

JC just shook his head and muttered, "Nothing. Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

Chris glared at him. "Considering how much time you spend in bed, I don't see how that's humanly possible."

He stared at JC speculatively for a couple of minutes and then asked, "So, tell me, Chasez. When was the last time you got laid?"

JC was shocked. He just didn't talk about his sex life with the guys at this point in their lives. This was early days, after all, back when they were still hanging on to the idea that some things were personal and could actually stay that way. Well, JC was hanging on to that illusion, anyway. Joey and Chris talked about their sex lives with anyone they could pin down long enough, and Justin and Lance didn't have sex lives yet, at least as far as JC knew. 

In fact, JC hadn't had sex since they arrived in Germany. Back then he'd been pretty selective about his bed partners. He'd only slept with maybe one girl and a couple of guys, and none of them had been one night stands. At any rate, he was startled enough by Chris' question to actually answer truthfully.

"Um. A week before we left home?"

Chris nodded and released JC's shirt, giving his chest a little pat. "Well, dude, I think you're way overdue."

Before JC could haul him back over the line he'd just crossed, Chris waved him quiet. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

And Chris walked out without another word, leaving JC wondering what he might have in mind. He thought maybe Chris would hire a hooker for him, or worse, get Joey to loan him one of his girls for an evening. Not that Joey's girls were worse than hookers, really, but having to borrow your friends' dates was just plain humiliating. Or maybe next time he went clubbing with Chris and Joey, Chris would force him to pick someone up. He couldn't really force him, though. Not if JC didn't want to. Probably. Except that it was Chris, so yeah, probably he could.

In any event, when Chris and Joey left that night, Chris didn't say anything, didn't even a hint that maybe JC might like to come along this time, so that was okay, anyway. JC went to bed half expecting Chris to show up around midnight with a hooker in tow. He was pretty sure he didn't want that to happen.

What he wasn't expecting was for Chris to return two or three hours later, strip down without a word and slide in next to him under the covers. JC had been too shocked to do more than gasp "um, um, um" as Chris wrestled his boxers off and settled between his legs. When Chris paused, his mouth about half an inch away from JC's dick , to ask, "Hey, you  _do_ sleep with guys, don't you?" JC almost dislocated his neck trying to nod his head yes. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Since then, JC has had sex with Chris a total of seven times. They don't talk about it. They've never talked about, but they don't really need to. It just kind of happens, and then suddenly everything's back to normal. None of those awkward moments of wondering if the person is going to stay the night, no strained conversation over the cereal the next morning. They just slide right back into the regular groove of their friendship. Sometimes Chris leaves after the sex, sometimes he stays the night. Even when he does spend the night, though, he's always up before JC, and never talks about anything weird when JC finally drags himself down to the kitchen in search of coffee. Which is kind of weird in itself, really. It's like Chris just dropped by to help him with his taxes and then stayed over when it took longer than he'd expected. Except that he'd never ask Chris to help him with his taxes. Lance, maybe -- well, Lance  _definitely_  -- but not Chris. But if he did, they'd probably talk about the taxes the next morning, at least in passing. 

It's always Chris who initiates the sex, too. JC has wanted to, has had every intention on several occasions of being the one to get things going. The problem is, he doesn't know how. It's really, really stupid because if there's one thing he's never uncomfortable talking about or asking for, it's sex. He knows Chris better than he knows his own family, he's sucked his dick, he's had his tongue in Chris' ass, for god's sake. It really shouldn't be such a stretch to make the first move once in a while. 

For some reason, though, he just can't seem to get the proposi tion out of his brain and into the room. He'll be right on the edge of asking, rolling the words around in his mouth until they feel sweet and right like Werther's candies, and then Chris will raise his eyes, and JC will have to swallow them back. Or he'll reach out to give Chris a good grope, hoping a non-verbal approach might be a little easier, but he'll panic at the last minute and have to yank his hand back or pretend to be swatting a fly away from Chris' crotch or something. He doesn't know if Chris is fooled, not really. He'll look steadily at JC, maybe hint of a laugh hovering beneath the surface, but he'll let the moment pass without comment. 

At first, JC figured it was just some random thing, like one minute they'd be talking about football and feng shui and the next minute they'd be rolling around on the bed or under the kitchen table. Since then he's come to believe that there are rules at play. The problem is, JC doesn't know what they are. Chris made them, Chris keeps them, and so far, by sheer luck, JC seems to have kept them as well. He  _thinks_  the most important rule is that they're not allowed to talk about it. Maybe. That might not actually be one of the rules at all, but when it gets right down to it, he's too nervous to put it to the test. Another rule might be that Chris is in charge of their sexual agenda, at least of the when, where and how often. Or again, maybe not. Another theory JC hasn't been willing to test. He might only have sex with Chris once a year, but there's a lot he's prepared to do to not screw that up.

It's different now, though. If Chris is going to be his Kelly, JC's going to have to figure out the rules, or maybe make some new ones.

Over the years, the only common denominator JC has been able to untangle from all their sexual liaisons is his own state of fucked-up-ness. Chris only ever seems to put the moves on him when JC is in the middle of some kind of emotional crisis. Before the hiatus, it usually happened at some point during one of their tours, because there's always been a point during any tour when JC overloads on the combination of excess stimulation and too little time alone. It'll start just like it did in Germany, with JC retreating into sleep whenever he can and getting snappy and impatient when he can't. After the first couple of times, Chris became pretty adept at making his move before JC actually reached his limit and threw a tantrum. . Pre-emptive sex, is how JC thinks of it.

When they went on hiatus, JC figured that would be it for a while. He was kind of sad, and he tried really, really hard to make some kind of a move, but kept chickening out at the last minute. In the end, he wasn't able to do more than ask Chris if he wanted a back rub. Chris said yes, of course, because JC gives fantastic back rubs, but it hadn't progressed to anything more exciting than Chris falling asleep on the carpet in JC's living room. 

Then several months ago when JC was still working on his album, stalled at that point in the creative process when he thought everything he'd done so far was complete crap and would never get to where he wanted it to be, he bumped into Chris at a party. Chris knew immediately that something was wrong. He could always tell when JC was unhappy, when any of them were, for that matter, even if he pretty much sucked at guessing what was causing it. You just couldn't hide that stuff from him, although god help you if he caught you whining about it. Anyway, Chris asked him what was up and JC started explaining how the song he was currently struggling with was feeling damp and heavy and thick like cream of wheat when he was looking for a crisp, light cola-ish vibe. Chris finally rolled his eyes, yanked him into the washroom and did very rude and wonderful things to him while impatient people yelled and banged on the other side of door. 

The trick, then, JC decides, must be to make Chris feel needed. If he feels needed enough, maybe he'll just keep hanging around and having sex with JC, and eventually he'll realize that he might as well just stay. And JC won't have to actually  _say_  anything. It'll just, like, happen. All by itself.

The more JC thinks about it, the happier he is with his plan. It could work. It really could. He just needs to figure out how to let Chris know he's needed without coming across as  _needy_. This is going to take a bit of thought. It's not as though he can just whip an emotional crisis up out of thin air. And it needs to be convincing, because Chris is pretty shrewd. He's not going to get all faked out just because JC makes a sad face or two at him. 

After an hour or two of deep thought, JC realizes his plan is possibly going to be a bit more complicated than he anticipated. The thing is, JC is really quite self-sufficient. There just aren't a lot of things he needs from other people. Sure, when the group first went on hiatus, he'd felt a bit lost without the guys to provide a framework for his days, just like he always did when they took a break. He spent a ridiculous amount of time on the phone talking to Justin about his album, to Lance about his cosmonaut training, to Joey about New York and Kelly and the difference between being singing and acting on stage, and to Chris about everything in between. 

As the hiatus went on and on, he started to feel oddly vague and blurry around the edges, as though he were experiencing life through the wrong end of a telescope. The line between being awake and asleep seemed closer than ever before to disappearing entirely. He realized finally that he  _needed_  to work, needed it like eating and breathing. That's when he decided to make his own solo album. Since then, he's managed to build a routine which, yeah, might seem somewhat haphazard and eccentric to some people, but it works for him. He's productive, he's creative, he's making music and trying to promote himself, and he can even do interviews without worrying too much about saying something the guys will tease him about later. Well, they still tease him, of course, but it doesn't bother him, he doesn't very often regret the things he's said. Except for this relationship thing, he feels pretty firmly in control of and content with his life. What exactly is he supposed to convince Chris that he needs? 

He decides to leave the idea to percolate in his head for a few days and makes a note in his planner to get back to it next week. In the meantime, he'll just relax and let his subconscious take over the planning. He'll have to swear off sex during this planning phase as well, partly because it would be too distracting but also because it just feels like the right thing to do. This means that he'll have to stay away from booze, too, and drugs, because otherwise he won't have the will power to say no if someone starts flirting with him. So, no bars, clubs, or parties, and probably no restaurants either, but whatever. It'll be like a mystical experience. All the great mystics were celibate. He's pretty sure. 

After three days and nights of trying to plant subliminal messages in his brain and keeping himself pure, he doesn't know whether his subconscious is getting any benefit, but his conscious mind feels like it's about to pop like a pinata. This abstinence thing is just messed up. 

When Justin calls with an invitation to go clubbing, JC almost swallows his tongue trying to accept before Justin can change his mind. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Several hours later, they're on their fifth or sixth or maybe seventh drink, sprawled in a booth in the VIP lounge. JC's morosely checking out all the people he'd consider going home with if he wasn't being good, and he's feeling decidedly irritable 

"S'up, dude? You're all depressed and shit. If you weren't up for this, you should have said. We could've caught a movie or something. Or just chilled at my place."

"No, sorry. I know I'm shitty company tonight. I've just got a lot on my mind right now."

"The album?"

"Oh, no. No. I mean, that's a drag, sure. Doesn't help. But this is. Um. Not that. It's kind of personal."

Justin doesn't push it, just nods and looks out over the dance floor. Maybe he's hurt, or maybe he's just interested in the dancers, JC isn't sure, but even with the alcohol floating around his brain he knows it would be a really bad idea to tell Justin about the whole Chris thing. That would be asking for all kinds of layers of complication that he can't cope with right now. He feels bad, though, thinks he was maybe a bit too abrupt. As he's trying to think of a way to make it up, it occurs to him that maybe Justin can actually help with this. He  _is_  Chris' best friend, after all. Maybe JC can get some pointers from him without actually giving anything away.

He pokes Justin with his foot to get his attention. "It's just that I'm a little worried," he yells over the music. "About Chris."

Justin's attention snaps back immediately, like JC's just set himself on fire. "What do you mean? What's up with Chris? He never said anything."

"No, I know. I'm just. Well, don't you think it's time he found someone? Settled down a bit? don't you think maybe he's a bit lonely?"

"Oh." Justin looks at JC and blinks a few times as he processes this. "Oh. Yeah. I guess. Sure." He takes another swallow of his drink. "So, why now? I mean, why are you worried about him now? He's been single for like forever. Has he said anything? He hasn't said anything to  _me_." He sounds dubious, like nothing short of serious drugs and a lobotomy would ever convince Chris to confide anything in JC before he'd run it by Justin. It pisses JC off a little bit. If Chris is going to be his boyfriend, he'll  _have_  to tell JC some stuff first. Won't he? Justin will just have to get used to it. Maybe not right now, though.

"Well, no. Not really. Not as such. But he just seems. I don't know. Kind of ready. Don't you think?"

Justin nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, you know, he kinda does. Huh. I've been so caught up in my own shit that I haven't really been paying attention. But I think you're right, dude. He's like way ready. And, you know, he's not getting any younger. If he wants to have kids, he's gotta be hooking up with someone real soon. Or, you know. He'll be all impotent and shit. I mean there's Viagra, but that just helps you get it up, right? I mean, it doesn't actually do fuck all for your sperm count and whatever. Does it?"

" _Kids?_ " JC squeaks. Good god in heaven, he hadn't even  _considered_  kids. If Chris wants kids, there's no chance at all of him being interested in JC. Except, well, maybe they could adopt or find a surrogate mother or something. Would they be allowed to adopt? Two guys? This isn't the kind of stuff JC is really up to date on because frankly, the whole idea of having kids would never have occurred to him in a million years. If Chris wants them, though, well, they'll just have to find a way. Maybe if they moved to Canada and got married they'd be allowed to adopt. But Chris probably wouldn't want to move to Canada. It's kind of cold there, even if the people are really nice and polite. Except when they throw stuff at Justin, of course. Maybe those hadn't been real Canadians, though. They could have been tourists or something. And there's always a few bad apples. Nobody's every thrown anything at JC when he's been in Canada.

But kids. JC likes kids. He does. They can be entertaining and fun, and it's really cool how they just say whatever's on their minds and how they're so logical even when they seem totally illogical. The thing about kids, though, is that if you have them, you suddenly have to be responsible in a whole different way. You have to get up at ungodly hours and go to school concerts even when the sound of twenty or thirty voices all singing off key makes you want to fill your ears with boiling wax. And you have to watch your language, and pay attention, and deal with rude teachers who think your kids should go to bed earlier and pay more attention in class. His mother used to complain a lot about dealing with rude teachers.

"Justin, does Chris  _want_  kids? Like, a lot?"

"A lot of kids?"

"No, I mean does he want them really badly?"

"Fuck, I dunno. I don't know if he wants them at all."

"Wouldn't he have told you, though? Since you're his best friend?"

"Uh huh. Sure. We would have talked about it right after we discussed what colour dresses the flower girls would wear at his wedding."

"Isn't there usually only  _one_  flower girl?"

"Do I give a shit? That's why I leave those conversations to you."

"What are you saying?"

"Just saying that you're much more closely acquainted with your feminine side than most chicks I know, that's all."

"That's just not true. S'not true at all."

"Whatever you say, Mr. I-love-candles-and-incense-and-flowers-and-interior-decorating."

"Oh, shut up. One interview, man, one stupid interview and you guys just can't leave it alone. Besides, you wear  _pink_. A  _lot_. And you're a big, mushy, romantic sap. That's pretty girly."

"Whatever, dude. You wear pink wayyyy more than I do. And Jean-Claude Van Damme is a romantic sap, too. Nobody calls  _him_  girly."

"For real? He is? You're just making that up."

"No, I swear." Justin smiles at him. "Total sap. The big VD himself."

JC is pretty sure Justin's full of shit and just trying to win the argument, but if they don't get back on track he's going to forget the whole point of the conversation.

"So.  _Chris_." He looks at Justin pointedly. "I thought we were trying to help  _Chris_  here."

Justin looks abashed. "Right, sorry. So what do you think we should do? Find him a girlfriend?" 

"Oh. Um, well." JC can't think of a good enough reason to dismiss the idea out of hand but, god, this is just getting worse and worse. First the kid thing, and now Justin's setting himself up as Chris' yenta. "But, um. We couldn't just set him up with any old body. We'd need to find someone with that perfect blend of special, unique qualities that will work for  _Chris_. This is going to take some time. A  _long_  time."

"I  _know_  what Chris likes." Justin says impatiently.

"Yes, but--"

"He likes good-looking women. Women with a sense of humour."

"Yes, but--"

"Intelligent women. Women who like dogs."

JC sighs. It's true. Chris  _does_  like good looking smart chicks who laugh at his jokes and put up with his dogs. But that's not so bad. JC fits all of those qualities too, except for the being a chick part which, whatever, because Chris likes the same things in guys. But the rest of it? Sense of humour? Check. Smart? Check. Good looking? Well, yeah, check. He's not too modest to acknowledge that he's good looking and Chris obviously doesn't find him hideous or he wouldn't have slept with him every year since they've known one another. Only once a year, granted, so maybe Chris doesn't find him all  _that_  good looking, but he wouldn't have slept with him at all if he thought JC was homely. The first time could have been a pity fuck, but after a while Chris would have figured out that JC didn't need anyone's pity to find someone to fool around with, so. And dogs? Well, as long as someone else is responsible for feeding and walking them, he loves dogs. He's just too easily distracted to have any of his own. 

"Yes, okay, and--"

"He likes women who aren't clingy and neurotic."

Okay, JC's not clingy, not at all. In fact, in the past he's even had to be reminded on occasion that he's actually  _in_ a relationship. He's like the total antithesis of clingy. He  _is_ maybe just the tiniest bit neurotic though. Possibly. Well, people have said. Some people. Most of the people he knows. Perhaps his complete lack of clinginess cancels out the neuroses, though. That would only be fair. Even if it doesn't, he's still ahead, still scoring 90% on the "perfect for Chris" scale. Or maybe not. He's never been very good at working out percentages from fractions.

"Um, J? What percent is five out of six?"

Justin stares blankly at him. "Huh?"

"If you get five out of six on a test, what percent would that be?"

"Um," Justin squishes his eyes shut in concentration for a minute. He's no Lance, but he is pretty good at doing shit like that in his head. "Eighty-three percent. What the fuck are you talking about? What test?"

"No test. It just kind of went through my head and I wondered, is all." Good. Eighty-three percent is still pretty good. Well over a pass, anyway.

"Okayyy then. Are we still talking about finding someone for Chris or have we moved on to the math portion of this conversation?"

"Sorry." JC does his best to look apologetic, but it doesn't really matter because Justin's already off again.

"So. What've we got?" Justin has that feverish look to him that he always gets when he's excited about a new project. "Let's see. Do you have some paper and a pen?"

"No." JC very carefully doesn't look at his satchel, propped on the chair beside him. He knows he has at least three pens and two notebooks in there, but enough is enough. His only hope is that Justin will have forgotten the whole conversation by the next morning.

"Okay, whatever. Doesn't matter. This is what we have so far. We're looking for a chick who's good looking, has a sense of humour, is intelligent, likes dogs, and isn't clingy or neurotic. Right?"

"Um. Okay, yeah. But probably a  _bit_ neurotic is okay, as long as she's like, totally not clingy. Life if she's the anthis-. Uh, ansithi-." JC decides that if a person's going to say "antithesis" at all, it probably shouldn't be after six or ten drinks. "If she's, like, the  _opposite_  of clingy."

Justin stares at him for a few seconds, thinking about it. "I don't know, man. I don't think we should be trying to set him up wi--"

"Me either," JC mutters.

"--with some neurotic chick. He's got enough of his own neuroses to worry about without having to put up with someone else's."

"He can handle it," JC says with more confidence than he feels. "Oh, and he likes curly hair."

"No he doesn't. Well, maybe he does, but he likes straight hair, too. I don't think hair is really a big thing for him either way."

"Well, he likes hair that isn't really short, anyway. Something he can grab hold of when--" JC realizes it might be better not to complete that thought. "Um. You know. To grab hold of if, say, she starts to fall off a bridge or something."

"You are maybe the weirdest person I know, dude. I think we'll just leave hair off the list. Anyway, I've got enough to work with. Just leave this with me. I'll have him all married up and settled down before you know it,"

JC feels miserable. This evening has been a total bust. Worse even. Justin with a project is like a runaway train; he's just going to roll right down those tracks until he gets what he wants and JC can't think of a single way to stop him. He's obviously going to have to accelerate his own plan, or Chris will be engaged by the end of the week.

An hour or so later, when Justin decides it's time to call it a night, JC tells he's going to stay on for a while, do some thinking. Justin, of course, interprets "thinking" as a euphemism for trying to get laid, so he just winks, gives JC a hug and tells him to hang on to his pants this time.

JC orders another drink, pulls out one of his notebooks and a pen and settles in to formulate his strategy. At the top of a blank page he writes "Chris." That doesn't seem like much of a title, though. He spends the next half hour jotting down and then crossing out possible titles.

  
_Getting Chris_   


 

 

. Too hitman-ish.

  
_Operation Chris_   


 

 

. Too James Bond.

  
_Chris: The Operation_   


. Too ER.

  
_Marrying Chris_   


. Too domestic, and besides, it brings up the whole Canada thing, which JC doesn't want to think about right now.

In the end, he rips the page out of his notebook, tears it into tiny pieces and starts again on a fresh page. He writes "Chris" in the top margin and underlines it twice. Beneath it he writes

  
_Phase 1:_   


He stares at this for another half hour, during which time he orders two more drinks and eats a bowl of peanuts to sop up the alcohol. He needs to keep his head clear.

At two in the morning, JC underlines everything twice, adds a sun in the top left corner, a star in the top right corner, several exclamation points and an asterisk, and finally, in the bottom third of the page, draws a mailbox, one of those old fashioned kinds you see on farms with the little red flag you can lift up or push down to let the mail dude know whether you've got mail to be picked up. He studies the mailbox critically for a few minutes and writes "JC" on the side in fancy script. After another moment's thought, he adds Chris. He glances back up to his plan at the top of the page and, wow, it's like the mailbox has just delivered a brilliant idea directly to his brain. It's so obvious, he doesn't know why he hasn't thought of it before now. 

After a protracted struggle with his pants pockets as he tries to retrieve his cell phone and finally remembers that he left it in the satchel, JC dials Chris' number. A woman answers and yells at him in some language that might be Korean, or possibly Ukrainian. She answers three more times before Chris finally picks up and grunts, " _Wha . . .?_ " 

"Cat, your maid is like totally rude."

"Wha . . .?"

"I'm just saying. Why is she here in L.A. with you instead of back in Orlando? Oh, man, wait, was that, like, your, um date?" JC doesn't want to actually use the word "girlfriend." That would just be asking for bad luck.

"Uh . . ."

"Hey, whoa. You're sleeping with a chick who doesn't even speak English?" That would probably be okay, though. How serious can it be if Chris can't even talk to her. Unless maybe Chris is just tired of having people not appreciate his uniquely horrible jokes and has decided to go out with someone who couldn't realistically be expected to appreciate them in the first place. A foreign chick would be perfect for that. Things are just getting way too complicated. It's starting to give him a headache.

"What the fuck, man? Who the hell is this? And why are you speaking in tongues on my phone at," there's a pause followed by another grunt, followed by "at three in the morning? Fuck. I was just about asleep."

"Oh, uh. Sorry. Chris, it's me. JC."

"Uh huh. You okay, dude?"

"Sort of. It's just. I'm in a bit of a, sort of a. Well. I kind of need your help."

"Lost your pants again?"

JC laughs politely. What else can he do? Getting testy with Chris now will just screw everything up. "Um. No, not really. I mean, no. I have my pants. But I'm in a bit of a situation and, and I thought maybe you could help me out if, you know, you're not too busy. Which, I mean, yeah, I guess you're sleeping, but I like really, really need you right now and it won't take too long and the foreign chick will probably understand. You can tell her I'm like family or whatever. If you speak her language, that is."

"What the fuck are you talking about? What foreign chick? There  _is_  no foreign chick. I wasn't even  _dreaming_  about a foreign chick."

"The chick who keeps answering your phone, dude. She doesn't understand a word I say, so I figured she was from, like, Korea or something."

"There's no foreign chick, you moron. No one's answering my phone except me. Are you drunk?"

"Kind of, yes. I think so. But not, like, unpleasantly drunk. Just a bit, um. A little bit tipsy. Teeny bit. I can still, like, walk and stuff." JC's guessing at this part. The floor does seem to be a long way from his eyes right now, and it's tipping ever so slightly towards the left which he's pretty sure it wasn't doing a few minutes ago. "And I can talk without slurring my words. Most of them." Which is true if you don't count words like "antithesis" and JC is inclined not to.

"Right. Sure. So what's up, C?"

"Huh? Oh. It's just. I was out with Justin and I had a few more drinks than I meant to and now I can't drive myself home, so I was wondering if maybe you could come get me?"

"Why can't Justin take you home?"

"Oh, no, he can't. He left. Ages ago."

"And you can't take a cab because . . . ?"

"Oh. Oh, right. No. Well, you see, I kind of locked my wallet in the car, so I don't have any credit cards. Or money. Or anything."

"You lost your car keys?"

"Yeah. Um. Not so much lost, exactly. It's just. I locked  _them_  in the car, too. They're in there with my wallet. My keys and my wallet. And I already tried to call everybody else and nobody's answering, so."

"Nobody except the foreign chick who appears to be haunting my phone."

"Yeah. I guess."

Chris sighs dramatically into his ear. It's kind of sexy, JC thinks, even if it does sound a bit grumpy. "Fine. Whatever. Where are you, you big flake?"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“So how did you pay for your drinks?” Chris asks as he steers JC out of the club toward the parking lot. “Because you obviously didn’t stint yourself.”

“Hmmm?” JC is holding onto Chris’ arm, partly because Chris smells so good, like clean sheets and warm skin, and partly to keep himself anchored. Without that connection, he thinks he might just drift off into the night like ninety-nine red balloons. It takes him a few seconds to focus on Chris’ question because he’s too busy sniffing him and enjoying the whoosh of cars as they slide by on the wet streets. It must have rained while he was inside, or maybe the street cleaners have just passed. It looks really pretty either way, thousands of bright lights reflected in the glittering pavement, all blurred and smeary and vaguely Christmas-y in a distant, memory-viewed-through-the-bottom-of-a-glass kind of way. 

“The drinks,” Chris repeats. “How did you pay for them?”

“Huh? With my cred--. Um. I had some money. In my pocket. Some cash. You know. But it’s all gone now.” He pulls his pockets inside out to demonstrate, stumbling as he tries to shove them back into his pants. Chris brushes his hands away, holds him still and tucks the pockets back himself.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Look is your car going to be okay where it’s at?”

“Huh?” JC’s trying to come up with a plausible excuse for pulling his pockets out again so Chris will tuck them back in, because, mmm, Chris’ hands are warm and toasty and they totally belong in JC’s pants. “My car?”

“Yeah, your car, dude. Where is it?”

“It’s at home. Where else would it be? I thought. Didn’t you bring  _yours_?”

“Well, yeah, but--. Oh, fuck it. Let’s get you home.”

By the time they get to his place, JC can barely keep his eyes open. He knows he’s supposed to be doing something, that at some point this evening it had been very important to ensure that this scenario unfold pretty much exactly as it is, in fact, unfolding, but all he can think of as Chris hauls him out of the car, into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom is that if he doesn’t find a soft place to lie down really, really soon, he’s just going to have to make do with the next horizontal surface that stays still long enough for him to throw himself on it. But maybe he’ll pee first.

“Bathroom,” he whispers to Chris. Not that it’s a secret or anything, but he’s so tired he doesn’t want to do anything to wake himself up.

Chris whips him around, doing interesting things to the pattern of light and shadow on the walls and worrisome things to the contents of his stomach which lurch alarmingly toward his throat. 

“Do what you gotta do, man,” Chris says as he pushes JC into the gleaming porcelain whiteness of the bathroom. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’ll come get you.” 

As he’s staring at the toilet bowl, trying to decide whether or not he needs to puke, JC remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. And really? Other than the fact that he feels dizzy and his eyes are starting to ache from having to look at the blinding array of mirrors and chrome fixtures he’d been stupid enough to have installed in his bathroom, things are going pretty well. Chris is here, he obviously knows JC needs him because, well, because it’s obvious, and he’s not even grumpy which he always is when you wake him up, so, yeah. The plan is in motion, it’s ticking along like a well-greased engine, and all JC has to do is sit back and let it happen, because that’s what you do when you have a plan this brilliant, you let it work  _for_  you. 

He feels a little less complacent a few minutes later when he’s tucked up in bed so tightly that his arms are pinned to his sides and the quilt is almost touching his nose. Chris stripped him down as soon as he emerged from the bathroom, in a quick, efficient way that wasn’t sexy no matter how hard JC tried to make himself believe this was all just part of some kinky nurse-patient fantasy that Chris was playing with. 

When Chris kisses his forehead and heads toward the door, JC squeaks, “You’re  _leaving?Now?_ ”

“Yup. That’s the idea. I’m gonna crash in your spare room, okay? Just holler if you need anything.”

“But, but, wait.” JC struggles to free himself from his bed, but all he can do is wiggle his fingers and toes. “ _Wait_ , god damn it, I’m  _stuck_. I can’t even  _move_!”

“Yeah, well, you  _shouldn’t_  be moving. You should be sleeping. Now close your eyes like a good little drunk boy and shuffle off to Buffalo, or the Land of Nod, or wherever.”

“No! You can’t leave me like this! It’s not funny. What if I get  _sick_?” JC realizes he’s whining, which, as a seduction technique pretty much stinks. And he’s also threatening to throw up, which if there was ever anything guaranteed to empty a room of potential bed partners, throwing up and the potential for throwing up would have to be right at the top of the list. “I mean with a headache or something. My stomach feels fine.” He smiles what he hopes is an appealing, un-nauseated smile and tries again to escape from his bedding. 

Chris disappears into the bathroom and comes back waving a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. He puts the pills and the water on JC’s nightstand and pulls the wastebasket a bit closer to the bed. “There. If you need to puke just lean over the side of the bed and give ‘er,” he says, loosening the covers fractionally, enough so that JC’s pretty sure he can turn over if he tries really hard. 

“But, I. You can’t leave. I’m. I’m. I’m naked.”

Chris looks down on him for a few seconds, all dark and thoughtful and crow-like, head tipped to one side, eyes sharp. It makes JC want to close his eyes and offer up a prayer, he wants Chris so bad, but he can’t look away because if he does Chris will leave, just disappear in the blink of an eye. 

Chris doesn’t leave, though. “Naked?” he says slowly, reaching for his belt buckle. “Why, yes, Chasez, I do believe you are.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The problem is, nothing changes. When JC wakes up the next morning, the sun is bouncing fragments of light off the crystal ornaments on his dresser, and he smiles in contentment until he realizes he's alone in the bed.

He finds Chris in the kitchen, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. Chris makes a few not particularly funny jokes about how wasted JC was the night before, but neither of them talks about the sex. Maybe Chris thinks he's forgotten. JC tries to broach the subject.

"So. The thing. Um. I just, I don't know. It, uh. Oh, fuck."

Chris raises his left eyebrow in question. "Mm hm?

"Oh, you know, I just. Well, I just wanted to thank you for-" He stops himself just in time. Jesus. Thanking Chris for screwing him, how pathetic would that be? And clingy, too. "Uh. You know I like dogs, right? Like, quite a bit?"

"You need a coffee, dude." Chris pours him a cup, slides it over and goes back to the paper.

"Um. Okay, though. Just to settle an argument, you prefer curly hair, don't you? On the people you, uh, you know. Date, or whatever."

Chris looks at him over the top of the newspaper for a good two minutes. "Huh. I guess I really don't give a rat's ass." He glances down at the paper again, then back up at JC. "You had an argument with someone about what kind of hair I like?"

"Oh, well. Not exactly an argument. More like, it just kind of came up in conversation. You know."

"Yeah, sure. Why not? I've had weirder conversations with you, I suppose."

"Do you think I'm neurotic?"

"I think you're wayyyy past neurotic, dude. I think you left neurotic behind somewhere round the time you started throwing out your underwear rather than washing them."

"But. Well, okay. I'm not clingy, though."

There's a funny look on Chris face that JC can't quite interpret. "No. No, you're definitely not clingy, Chasez."

They sit together in silence, Chris absorbed in his paper, JC staring into his coffee trying to remember why this had seemed like such a brilliant idea the night before. Sure, Chris had spent the night, but nothing's been accomplished. Just another casual fuck, and wasn't that totally not what the plan was about?

Except.

Except that this casual fuck was with Chris, and in their long history of casual fucks, they've never, ever, not even once done it more than once a year. This makes twice in less than a month. And JC even made the first move. That has to be progress of a sort, doesn't it?

He leans over and pokes Chris. "Hey. You wanna hang out? Maybe go to, I don't know, a show or something?"

"Sorry, no can do, man. I'm flying back to Orlando this afternoon and I promised Justin I'd stop by for a couple of hours first. In fact," he looks at his watch, "I'm late. Gotta take off, man. You wanna come with?

"Oh. No thanks." Crap.  _Justin_. He can't possibly have found someone already, can he? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course he can. He's Justin Timberlake. He probably had twenty-five potential brides for Chris waiting on his doorstep within fifteen minutes of saying goodbye last night. Fuck.

He follows Chris into the hall and maybe holds on for a fraction of a second too long when Chris hugs him goodbye.

Pulling back, Chris looks at him questioningly. "You okay, C? You're acting kind of weird. Weirder. Weird with icing, I don't know."

"No, I'm fine. Fine. Except. Well, I just," JC closes his eyes and wrestles briefly with his conscience, "I just think you should probably know that Justin thinks you need a wife and he's going to try and set you up with some girls he knows. I thought you should know." Justin will forgive him. Eventually.

" _What? Justin?_ Like I need  _him_  to pimp for me! Jesus  _fuck_ , I'm going to kick his ass."

JC smiles and gives him another hug. "Yeah. Yeah, I think you should."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Even as he's riding the high that comes from sabotaging Justin's plan, JC knows he needs to work quickly. Justin is crafty and might rebound with a more devious plan. He might even try to set Chris up without Chris knowing by arranging random encounters with super models, or what have you, from a couple of thousand miles away. At least he's bought himself a little time. Chris is going to be suspicious of any woman who so much as smiles at him for at least the next couple of weeks.

After wrestling with the problem for a few days, JC is frustrated and cranky. He's pretty sure he's on the right track, that this whole making Chris feel needed is a sound strategy. It's just a question of figuring out the next step. The problem is, JC  _isn't_  devious. He's very much about letting things happen as they happen, about following instinct and intuition, about the abstract as opposed to the concrete. 

In the past, Chris has always happened to  _him_. Now he has to find a way to happen to Chris, and it seems like he's incapable of generating any ideas that aren't completely ridiculous (like telling Chris he's lost all his money on the stock market, for example, which would be way too complicated anyway because he'd have to get rid of all of his stuff, and maybe move into a cheap hotel, and he wouldn't have a studio anymore so his music would suffer and, well, he's worked too damned hard to let that happen) or too mean (like telling Chris he's terminally ill, which, how sexy are sick people, anyway, and Chris would be so worried and scared, and JC would rather never sleep with him again than put him though something like that).

The solution comes to him one morning when he's foraging in his kitchen cupboards, wondering rather sadly why he hadn't bought peanut butter last time he'd gone out for groceries. Or bread. Or Eggos. Or really, anything at all. 

  
_Joey_   


 

 

. 

Joey started this whole thing in the first place, by proposing to Kelly and making feel JC all restless and dissatisfied. Joey can help him fix it. He's bound to have some advice. After all, it took one hell of a long time for Joey to get down on his knee and Kelly's been right there for him since forever. If anyone can help him figure out how to move a relationship from maybe into definitely, Joey can.

JC's not sure how long the half-empty box of Fruit Loops has been lurking in the recesses of his pantry, but it's either that or a jar of anchovies, and why on earth had he ever bought those anyway? What did a person even  _do_  with anchovies? Mix them up with mayo and dill pickle like tuna? People put it on pizza, but he doesn't have any pizza and if he did? No way he'd be grossing it up with fish. If he wasn't so hungry, he'd call out for pizza though, because that would be just about perfect. Sighing, he empties the last of the Fruit Loops into a bowl, sniffs cautiously at the carton of milk before pouring it on top and grabs the phone. He speed dials Joey's cell as he settles himself at the table.

"Hello?"

The voice is all wrong, way too deep for Joey.

"Oh, sorry, dude. Wrong number."

"Wait, wait, don't hang up. JC? It's Lance."

"Oh, hey, Lance. Sorry. I must have pushed the wrong button, I was trying to get hold of Joey. But, you know. This is cool. How's Mississippi?"

"Good. Great. You didn't misdial, though. This is Joe's phone. He's visiting me for a few days." Lance's voice is all sexy and southern, his drawl always more pronounced when he's at home. Twenty minutes off the plane and his accent is stripped back to its roots. "Is everything okay? They haven't pushed your album back again, have they?"

"Oh, no. It's fine. I'm fine. Just. I'm having a bit of a problem, a relationship sort of problem. You know. I thought maybe Joey could help me out." As he's saying this, JC realizes that Lance being there is maybe a blessing. Lance is, like, the grand master of plotting and scheming, he always has been

 

 If Joey doesn't have any ideas, Lance will for sure. "Hey, but maybe I could talk to both of you?"

After a bid of fiddling about, during which JC hangs up to dial Lance's number so he can be put on speaker phone, remembers he hasn't programmed Lance's land line into his speed dial and has to call Joey's cell again to get it, Joey finally says, "C, dude! You should be here! We'd give you cheesecake and sausages and maybe even one of those frou frou drinks Lance is so fond of these days."

"Fucker," says Lance, but JC can hear the smile. "You haven't said no to any drink I've put in front of you so far."

"Ever the polite guest, that's me. So, C, Lance says you're having relationship problems. Fuck, man, we didn't even know you had a thing going. Who is it? Why haven't you said anything?"

JC sighs and pushes his bowl of Fruit Loops aside. He'd give anything to be in Mississippi right now. If he was in Mississippi Joey would hug him repeatedly, because that's what Joey does, and JC could squeeze in between Joey and Lance on Lance's couch and sip away at one of Lance's fancy drinks while Joey squeezed him and Lance patted his head until the three of them had his problem worked out.

"Well, that's kind of the problem, you see. I  _don't_  have a thing going, not exactly anyway. But there's this, um." He pauses for a second, wondering how much he's going to tell them. He really can't tell them it's Chris. For one thing, if things don't work out, it'll be too weird when the group gets back together to do the next album and Joey and Lance are feeling all sorry for him and stuff. For another, he thinks that Lance used to have a thing for Chris himself a few years ago, which maybe didn't turn out too well, because Lance had suddenly started being testy and curt with Chris and had insisted on sharing the two man bus with Joey, so this might stir up painful memories. If he does get together with Chris, JC will have to tell Lance eventually, of course, but there's just no point in upsetting him unnecessarily. "There's this  _person_ -"

"Who?" Lance and Joey ask simultaneously.

"It's just. I don't really want to say. Not yet. It's kind of a superstition thing. Let's just call the person, um, Shorty."

Lance snickers but then gives an encouraging "Mm hmm?" so JC forgives him.

Joey just says, "Uh huh. So What's the deal with Shorty?"

"Well, it's like. See, I've known Shorty for, oh, a long time, really. A few years, anyway. We've, you know, had  _sex_  and all, but only a few times. Like, we do it maybe once a year. By and large. Really infrequently, anyway. And, you know, I'm just at a point in my life where I want more. With Shorty. You know, Joey, like you and Kelly. I want that kind of thing. Well, sort of. I mean it doesn't have to be  _marriage_  or anything and I have to say the whole  _kid_  thing freaks me out, even though Canada  _is_  relatively close-"

"He lives in  _Canada_?" Lance asks dubiously. 

"Um. No? And, hey, I never said it was a  _guy_." 

"Well, dude," Joey says. "Have to say, I kind of assumed we were talking about a guy too."

"Fine, whatever. It's a guy, okay? Shorty's a guy. Not  _really_  the point, though."

"Kind of nice if we don't have to refer to him as 'it' though," Lance says reasonably.

"Or 'he slash she,'" Joey adds.

"Or the sometime lover that dare not speak its gender."

"Guys! Please!"

Joey makes a shushing, comforting sort of noise. "Okay, we're done. So what's the deal Shorty? You like  _him_. Presumably he likes  _you_ , at least well enough to get naked with you?"

"Well, sure. Yeah, he does, he  _likes_  me. I mean, you know, apart from the whole sex thing we're, like, really good friends, but-"

"Oh, God, tell me it's not Nick Carter. I mean, I like Nick, but he's such a brat."

"Shut up, Joey. Let him finish."

" _Thank_  you. But no, it isn't Nick. I don't think I've ever even slept with Nick. I gave him a blow job in his car one night when he drove me home, but that doesn't really count because it was kind of a dare type situation. You know the kind of thing. He was all 'oh this chick I'm seeing gives like the best head in California', and I was like, 'dude, no way, I know I can do better', so he said 'prove it.'"

"And?" asks Joey.

"And what?"

"And were you better than this chick?" 

"Well, duh."

Lance clears his throat. "Um, guys? Can we get back to JC's problem here? Much as I'd like to relive old blow jobs, I've got a teleconference in an hour, and I need to review a couple of files first."

"Yeah, we should stay focused," Joey says. "But if we're going to get sidetracked? That's definitely the kind of place we'll want to go, C."

"Right. Okay, then. Where was I?"

"You were in Nick Carter's car with your face in his crotch."

JC snickers happily while Lance mutters at Joey.

"Okay, okay. I'm ready. See, the problem is, I have this thing for Shorty, but I can't tell him about it because I don't know if he's going to feel the same way and if he doesn't, then telling him might screw up what we  _do_  have. And I really, really don't want to do that."

"Well, dude," Joey says. "You kinda have to tell him, don't you? Otherwise nothing's gonna change, right?"

"See, I thought maybe. Well, I made this  _plan_ , and I think it's a pretty good one, really quite good. I've even had some success with it already. Limited success, but still. Anyway, I spent a lot of time thinking this through and I think I've figured out that the only time Shorty sleeps with me is when he has this, like,  _perception_  that I'm really down emotionally, or confused -- stop laughing, Lance, that's just rude -- or just kind of generally vulnerable. You know? I mean, not that he takes advantage of me or anything, not like that. It's more that whenever I really need him, he's there."

"So, you only really need him once a year?"

"Exactly, Lance! Except, no. I need him more than that, but that's like the heart of the plan. See, I knew you'd get it!"

"Mm hmm. Okay. But I think maybe you should explain it to Joey, bring him up to speed here too."

"It's pretty simple, really, Joe. See, I figure if I can make him feel  _needed_ , you know, make him realize that I totally  _need_ him in my life as, like, a thing, a  _boyfriend_  maybe? A  _permanent_ boyfriend or whatever? Then he'll. Well, he'll want to sleep with me  _all_  the time, and if he starts doing that then he'll, like, actually  _be_  my boyfriend. So. Yeah. That's my plan. In a nutshell."

"Hmmm. Interesting," Lance sounds a bit dubious, but JC figures he's probably just processing. Lance really likes to think things through and examine all the possible pitfalls before he'll commit himself to anything.

Joey's more enthusiastic, though. "Cool! Sounds good, dude. Workable. What can we do to help?"

"Mainly I thought-. Well. I was wondering, Joey, about you and Kel. Like, how did you get her to marry you, for example."

"Well, I asked her."

"Okay. Sure, but you went out with her for ages and you even slept with a whole bunch of other girls, and she still stayed with you. Most of the time, anyway. And you used to say that you  _needed_  her, right? So, I'm just thinking, how did you let her know that she was so important to you? Did you have a plan?"

Lance is laughing again, even more obnoxiously this time, but Joey talks over him. "Hmm. I guess I couldn't really call it a _plan_ , per se."

"No shit."

"Be quiet, Lance. You want me to water your plants again? Because I think a few of them are still alive. Anyway, C, it was just a combination of things, I guess. I mean, Kelly always knew she was the one. We talked a lot, you know? I told her all kinds of shit, stuff I didn't tell anyone else, even you guys. Well, except Lance, of course, later on. And when we were on the road, I always bought her shit, just to let her know I was thinking of her. Small stuff, mostly. Funny postcards and weird little souvenirs and whatnot. I still do, but now it's more like flowers or a bag of bagels from her favourite deli. Jewellery occasionally. You know. Oh, yeah, and when the first Lord of the Rings movie came out I sent her one of those Aragorn action figures because I knew she thought he was hot. That kind of thing."

"Cool. Thanks, Joe. This is awesome, it really helps."

"Uh, C? Before you get carried away with Joey's advice? You way want to consider that it took him years --  _years_ , JC -- to get to this point. And on the way he broke Kelly's heart maybe two billion times and got his ass dumped almost as many. I'd have to say that as a strategy, Joey's quote unquote  _plan_  pretty much sucked." 

"Mm. But. Well, do you have an idea, then?"

"Yup. Don't be such a wuss. Tell Shorty you want him in your bed more than once a year. He's a  _guy_ , dude. Direct action is always better. Always. If it works, great. If it doesn't, maybe you just need to keep lookin'. But trust me, it'll work."

"Uh huh. Yes, well. That's very helpful too, Lance. Thanks for your input. I'm just going to have to, um, weigh my options." Really, though, what does Lance know about relationships? He hasn't had a steady boyfriend since forever, and JC doesn't think he's ever managed to hang onto someone for more than a month or two, tops.

Lance just snorts. "Fine then. Y'all just weigh your options. Let me know where you're at in a couple of years."

"Ignore him, C. Your plan rocks. Just keep us posted, dude."

 

  
  
JC is already mentally mapping out his next moves before he even hangs up the phone. He's so excited, he can hardly stand it. Joey is a prince.   
  


Ten minutes later, he's ordering chocolates from a woman at Neiman Marcus who assures him that a tastefully wrapped and beribboned box of 75 deluxe truffles will be delivered the next day to Chris in Orlando. Next, he calls his favourite florist and spends forty-five minutes discussing various gift possibilities with an enthusiastic salesman named Greg who is terribly keen about something called a  _Schefflera Arboricola_ , which he says is some sort of bonsai tree, but totally easy to care for, even an idiot could manage not to kill one, and they go with any decor. JC doesn't really like the idea because bonsai kind of creeps him out in a Fantastic-Island-of-Doctor-Moreau-ish way, but Greg is very persuasive, describing the tree as "practical, yet sensuous," so he finally orders one to be delivered in two days. Just to be on the safe side he orders a cactus, too. You can never go wrong with a nice cactus. He asks Greg to make sure Chris gets it the day after the bonsai tree arrives. 

Next, he goes online and within half an hour he's ordered a Vectron Blackhawk remote control UFO, a complete set of Pittsburgh Penguin bobbleheads, a colour-changing Mood Light Ambience Bowl, a Harley-Davidson keychain, a manicure set (because Chris' nails truly are a disgrace), the New Zealand Lord of the Rings postage stamps (because he knows Chris loved the movies too, even if he can't remember which of the characters he found hot), a poster of Arwen (because her picture isn't in any of the New Zealand stamps and, who knows, maybe Chris thought she was hot), a South Park t-shirt and a monogrammed fountain pen. He times it so that Chris should receive a present a day for the next week and a half. 

Now he just needs to think of something to confide to Chris. This is more of a problem because JC isn't all that secretive, not when it comes to the guys. And the secrets he does have, well, they're secrets for a reason. He'll just have to wing it, he decides.

Chris sounds happy to hear from him, and they talk for a few minutes about this and that. It isn't until JC senses that Chris is getting distracted and is about to say goodbye that he says, "There's something I've been meaning to say to you. It just, you know, never felt like the right time."

"Okayyy. Is it about that ham and peanut butter sandwich I left in your glove compartment a few weeks ago? Because, dude, I totally meant to tell you it was there. Just slipped my mind."

"Um. No. No, that wasn't it."

"Oh, okay. So what is it, then?"

"It-. Uh. Which car, dawg?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out. Go on."

"Well, you know the CD?  _My_  CD? It's just, when Jive pushed back the drop date, I was, like, really pissed. You know? I mean, I tried to be all cool and accommodating because, whatever, you know, they've got their reasons and I'm totally sympathetic. But. Well, anyway, I was pretty upset."

"Uh huh. Sure, I mean of course you were, dude. After all that work? We were all pretty pissed on your behalf. So. Go on."

"Go on?"

"Yeah, so you were all fucked up about the delay with the CD. And?"

"And?"

"So it's still bugging you? Is that it?"

"What? Oh, no. Nothing like that. I got over it in a couple of days, or a week, or whatever. These things happen, Chris. You can't let them get you down."

"Okay. Let's see if I've got this." Chris is speaking slowly, enunciating every word like JC is a certifiable moron. "You were mad and then you weren't. And apparently you're still not. And you thought you needed to tell me this because . . .?"

"Well. I just thought. I don't know. It was  _important_  to me, Chris. I thought maybe you'd want to know. That's all."

"Oh. Alright then. Thanks for sharing, dude. Are you, um, getting enough sleep?"

JC is feeling quite annoyed with Chris by the time they say goodbye. The whole incident with the CD had been a pivotal moment in his development as an artist and he really thought Chris would have got that. When Jive first told him they were going to have to push back the release date, JC had been shocked at the wave of insecurity and loneliness that had washed over him. It was like being thrown back to those ugly days when they'd first started to suspect that Lou was shafting them, only this time he was by himself and, if it turned into a legal battle, well, he just didn't know if he could go through something like that alone. He'd spent several sleepless nights worrying about whether the delay reflected a judgement on his talent and, if so, if there was any point trying to find another label. In the end, he decided he just couldn't let it matter. The album was what it was, he was proud of it, and if it tanked, he still had a whole brainful of songs waiting to be written. And that had been the turning point in his career as a solo artist, the realization that he could do this, and he could do it alone if that's what he had to do.

Maybe he should have been a bit more specific, though. Sometimes Chris can be surprisingly obtuse for such a smart guy. Whatever. No point in brooding, he decides. It's early days. 

That night JC sleeps better than he has in weeks. He dreams about driving down steep canyon roads, flying through the night like a ball off a bat, sliding smooth as gravy around hair pin curves, alive all over, every nerve in his body in tune with the forward momentum of the car as it plunges toward the valley below. An omen, he thinks as he stretches in the morning sun, a good omen.

He dials Chris' number even before he gets out of bed, because it's kind of sexy to be lying here naked with Chris' voice in his ear. This time he doesn't pussyfoot around with small talk, he just launches right into what he wants to say.

"Hey, man. It's me. Got a minute? There's something else I wanted to tell you."

"Well, I-"

"It'll just take a couple of minutes. And, dude, I know I probably didn't make myself really clear yesterday with the Jive thing, but I'll get better with practice."

"Well, I-"

"So, okay, I just wanted to say, you remember that time in Germany? When you and Joe ate all the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups my mom sent me for my birthday? And remember I was so pissed off with you, and you felt really bad so you gave me a bag of springerle cookies and a bottle of rum?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"Well, I wasn't really pissed off. I mean, I was, because hey, that was pretty rude, but you know, whatever. But really, I wasn't even in the mood for peanut butter cups. I was, like, pretty much trying not to do things that would make me feel homesick at that point, so I wasn't planning on eating them anyway."

"Okay. You were mad, but you weren't, but you were. Right?"

"Uh huh."

"And you weren't going to eat them anyway?"

"Uh uh."

"Once again, so cool that you shared, dude."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Are you calling up to tell me you owe me a bag of springerle and a bottle of hooch?"

"You stole my chocolate, man! I don't owe you anything!"

"Then I'm totally not getting the point of this phone call."

JC holds the phone up in front of his face and stares at it in disbelief. Finally, he shakes his head, sighs and decides that a change of topic might be in order. He says, "I had a really good dream last night."

"Are you still having it?"

"You know what, sometimes there's just no talking to you, Chris. Whatever. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye." 

JC disconnects and doesn't answer when Chris calls right back. 

This is  _so_  not working the way Joey said it would.

By the time he's showered and shaved, he feels optimistic again. The important thing is to stay on track, not get discouraged. That's been the way he's lived his life since forever and it's always worked before. 

Chris has left two messages, one telling him not to be such a sensitive sissy dork fuckhead and the second thanking him for the chocolates. He doesn't answer either of them, but the second gives him a little jolt of success that makes the rest of the day much easier to get through.

The next day is crazy, back to back meetings all over L.A. as he tries to finally nail down a release date for the CD, discuss promotion strategies and work out some of the details for a club tour in December. JC doesn't have a chance to call Chris all morning, and the afternoon isn't looking very promising either. He's just pulling into traffic after a particularly irritating lunch at Spago's with a dude from Jive who didn't like any of JC's ideas for cover art and chewed with his mouth open, when Chris phones him.

"Dude, the chocolates! Thank you! You fuckin' rock! I was, like, totally out of everything, man." Chris is talking so quickly, JC thinks he may have already finished the entire box . "My sisters had just left, and like, whoa, those girls can fuckin' _eat_ they were here four hours and I swear to God, they devoured every single edible thing in the house, like, hree whole boxes of Cocoa Puffs, dude, and maybe even some of the non-edible things because I'm pretty sure a couple of my potted plants and my alarm clock are missing. Your timing couldn't have been better, I was going into sugar withdrawal. Man, no wonder my mom was always broke, that's just not  _natural_. So, you know, thanks."

"No problem. I'm glad you like them. Hey, I was going to call you later. There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh, yeah? Please tell me this has nothing to do with things that make you mad but don't really but actually kind of do."

"No. No, it's nothing like that. It's more, well, it's a philosophical kind of thing, I guess. Sort of. It's just, a few days ago when I was at my doctor's office I read this article in  _Nature_  about the shape of the universe-"

"The shape of Miss  _Universe_? There was an article in  _Nature_  about the shape of Miss  _Universe_?"

"Not  _Miss_.  _The_. The shape of  _the_  universe."

"Oh. Okay. I was thinking maybe I should be hitting the library more often."

"Well, it couldn't hurt.  _Anyway_ , the point is, I read this article about the shape of the universe and it totally freaked me out, man. Don't laugh. It's not funny, Chris, I'm being serious here."

"No, no, go on. I'm just. Uh. Too much chocolate."

"Oh, right. Well, anyway, these scientist dudes are doing all this research and they've come up with all these different theories about what the universe probably looks like, and they've narrowed it down to a few shapes that they think are the most likely. And, dude, I don't like any of them! Sure, from an aesthetic point of view a couple of them are kinda cool, but to live in? On? Man, I don't know. It just doesn't  _work_  for me, you know? There's this one, they call it a dodoc-, dedroc-"

"Dodecahedron?"

"That's it! Did you read the article, too?"

"No. Lance was reading it to me over the phone a couple days ago."

"Did it freak you out, too?"

"No, not really. After the first couple of paragraphs, I just set the phone down and went and made myself a sandwich. By the time I got back, he'd finished, so I just said 'uh huh' and then we talked about hockey."

"Oh. Well, you should have kept listening. It was a pretty fascinating article, Chris."

"Which freaked you out."

"Right, right. Because, you know, that dodeca-thingy universe would be shaped like a soccer ball, man. A  _soccer ball_! I mean, how silly would that be? A whole universe shaped like a soccer ball? And then there's this other theory that it's shaped like a saddle. Can you even imagine it? I mean, I like horses and riding and all that western stuff, but living on a _saddle_? Saddles are slippery, dude. I just hate the idea that every day we're sliding a little bit further to falling right off the horse. And, Chris, it was bad enough when they thought maybe the universe was infinite, because who can wrap their mind around that, but if the universe is  _finite_  and it's shaped like a  _saddle_  and you fall  _off_ , like where would you fall? And I know that doesn't make any sense at all, because, yeah, it's finite, so you really couldn't even fall off, but I don't know. Doesn't it just make you all shivery and nervous?"

"Are you talking shivery in a sexy, let's get naked kind of way, or shivery in a, whoa, how scary is it that my friend is such a nut job sort of way?"

"Fuck you."

"Oh, don't get all pissy. Look, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the shape of the universe because I learned when I was a kid that that's just not a good thing to do if you want to be able to sleep at night. But when I do think about it? I stop again really quickly. There are too many other things to think about that don't hurt my brain. I mean, seriously, dude, I'm sorry you're all fucked up about this, but just do what I do. Think about the shape of Jennifer Aniston's boobs instead. You'll be much happier for it."

"She has nice boobs."

"Totally. See? It's working already. I'm gonna go eat more chocolate now. I saved the strawberry creams for last. See ya."

JC isn't sure whether this conversation has really accomplished what it was supposed to, but at least it's an improvement over the last two. He doesn't want to tip a plate of spaghetti into Chris' lap, at any rate, so that has to be good.

Chris beats him to the punch the next day, too, calling before JC is even out of bed. "Hey, C? You know I'm not sick, right?"

"I think so. You're  _not_  sick, are you?"

"No."

"Well, then. Yes."

"It's just. I got the tree thing. And the pansies."

"Pansies? I didn't send you pansies."

"Well, there's a little card with them that says "Thinking of you" and it's signed 'JC'. That sounds kinda like you, man."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't send you pansies."

"Except that apparently you did. What's wrong with pansies, anyway? You sent me chocolates and a bonsai, so why not pansies? Pansies are cool."

"Yeah, I guess. Pansy means 'thought' in French, you know."

"Merde means shit."

"Uh huh. I meant to send you a cactus. The guy must have made a mistake. Or maybe the pansies are, like, a bonus gift or something."

"So. Chocolates. Tree. Cactus. Maybe or maybe not pansies. What's up, dude? Are you trying to apologize for something?"

"No! What would I be apologizing for? I just figured you might, you know," JC can't really think how to explain the gifts without giving away the plan. He really should have put just a bit more thought into this. "Um. You know what makes me really happy?"

"Buying presents for people?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Getting a back massage?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Having your ears rubbed?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Getting screwed on your kitchen table?"

"Oh. Um. Uh huh. But-"

"Then the answer to your question is yes. I know what makes you really happy. Gotta go, man. Someone's on the other line."

"But-" It's too late. Chris has already hung up.

On the plus side, this is probably the closest they've ever come to a frank discussion about having sex. Orlando suddenly feels very far away. After a conversation like that, JC can't help thinking that if Orlando weren't in Florida, if it were in Pasadena, say, or San Francisco, or maybe even in Nevada, Chris might be on his way over right now. It sucks being this far away. And it's stupid, because he can't possibly assess the success of the plan from the other side of the country. Well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed will just have to hop on a flight to Orlando.  


  
  
The house smells stale and empty in spite of the overlay of Mr. Clean left by the cleaning service JC employs to come by every week even when he's away. He hates returning to find layers of dust on his furniture and spider webs creeping across the ceiling, but the lingering scent of cleaner can't mask the fact that nobody's been living here for a while. It makes JC feel lonely, so he heats a couple of pizza pops in the microwave, puts them on a plate and carries them through the house, from kitchen to living room to his bedroom upstairs and back again. By the time he's completed the circuit, the house smells like home again and he can relax. It's four in the morning. Too early still to call Chris, so he pours a glass of wine, flips on the TV and curls up on the couch to eat the pizza pops.   
  


When he wakes up, it's light outside, there's a pizza pop wedged between his chin and the pale blue linen arm of the couch, and someone's pounding on his front door. He rubs his face to get rid of the worst the mess and stumbles to the hallway to find Lance leaning against the door frame, looking bored but determined. 

"Lance! What are you. I mean, how did you know I was here, dude? And I thought  _you_  were in Mississippi."

Lance raises his right eyebrow in surprise. "I always know where you are."

"Yeah, but-"

"Are you going to ask me in or are we going to talk on your front porch so all your neighbours can find out what a slob you are." He nods disapprovingly toward the tomato mess that JC can feel on his chin and neck and shoulder. "Gross."

"Oh. This. I. Fuck it. I need to pee. Come in. Why don't you make us some coffee while I grab a shower."

When he gets back downstairs, there's a pot of coffee waiting, along with croissants, a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and a pitcher of orange juice.

"Wow, hey, this looks fantastic. But I don't know, man. Those eggs've gotta be bad by now. I haven't been here for weeks."

"I brought them with me. I brought everything except the coffee. I haven't eaten anything out of your fridge since that time you tried to convince me that those green lumps in the potato chowder were spinach dumplings."

"Huh." JC pours himself a coffee and starts shovelling eggs and bacon into his mouth with gusto. "So, really. How did you know I was here?"

"So, really. I always know where you are."

"You're pretty scary sometimes, Lance."

"You too, man."

"Well, it's really cool of you to come over and make me breakfast, anyway. Thanks, cat."

"You're welcome. The breakfast's just a side benefit, though. The real reason I'm here is to stop you making even more of an ass out of yourself than you already have."

"Um. Huh?"

"How's the big romance? With  _Shorty_."

"Fine. It's just fine, thank you for asking. Can you pass the pepper, please?"

"There's enough pepper in the eggs already. Don't try and change the subject. I'm asking how the great plan is working out."

"And I said, fine. It's working out just fine. Things are starting to come together."

"It's not going to work, JC. Not in a million years."

"It is  _so_  going to work. It's working already. Just. You know. Slowly. Look, I don't want to be rude, Lance, but you shouldn't be so negative. I know you mean well, but it doesn't help, and besides, how can you possibly know what will work and what won't? You can't know that, dude. And anyway, it's not like you have such a terrific track record with relationships yourself."

"My track record with relationships is just fine, thank you very much. I know what I want and nine times out of ten, I get what I want. Because you know what? I ask for it. This thing you're doing? It won't work. And you want to know how I know this? I know this because I know  _Chris_."

" _Chris? Chris?_ " JC squeaks. "How did you. I never said it was Chris."

Lance rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and you're so subtle, I should never have been able to figure it out. Even if I hadn't known before you called Joey, even if you hadn't called him  _Shorty_ , and even if you haven't been mooning after him for the past however many years, I think the fact that you've been stalking him with insane phone calls and a boatload of weird presents might have given it away."

"Chris  _told_  you?"

"Apparently."

"He said the phone calls were insane?"

"Not exactly. I'm paraphrasing. He was a little less diplomatic."

"Sometimes it's hard to talk to Chris on the phone, you know."

"Yeah, tell me about it. In person, too."

"Oh, hey now. But, yeah. So is he pissed off?"

"Nah. Just a little freaked out. He thinks you're either trying to apologize for something or you're trying to butter him up so you can ask him to do something he'll really hate."

"He hasn't figured out the plan, then?"

"See, JC, even if he  _does_  figure out your plan? It won't make any difference. Your plan is stupid."

"You're just being mean because you're jealous. You don't  _want_  this to work, and I can totally understand. But, Lance, that was years ago. Don't you think it's time to let it go?"

"Huh? Okay. I have  _no_  idea what you're talking about. Why would I be jealous?"

"My thing with Chris. I figured it out, Lance." He stares pointedly at Lance and makes coming together, snapping apart gesture with his hands, but Lance is still looking at him blankly.

"About you and Chris, dude. I figured out that you used to have a thing for Chris way back. I don't know how far you guys took it, but I know that when things didn't work out you insisted on sharing the bus with Joey so you wouldn't have to be around Chris."

"Yeah, okay, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It never occurred to you that I insisted on sharing a bus with Joey because I wanted to be around  _Joey_?"

"Well, no. No it didn't. So it didn't bother you when the thing with Chris didn't work out, then?"

"Listen. Listen to me, here. I never had a thing with Chris. Or for Chris. Never. Ne. Ver. My thing was for Joey. Always."

"Oh. Oh! You and Joe? That's so cool! But you never said anything. How come you never said anything?"

"Well, a) because it was it wasn't anybody else's business, and b) because maybe I figured that moving in with him and spending all my time with him and sitting in his lap every time I got the teeniest bit drunk would possibly have been enough of a clue."

"Right. Okay. A lot of stuff makes so much more sense now. But, oh, man, fuck, this must be really hard for you then."

"What must be?"

"Joe. Kelly. The engagement."

"Why?"

"Well, I just. When did you and Joe break up, then?"

"Who said we broke up?"

"But. Oh.  _Oh_. I see. You mean? Oh, wow. Dude. That's. Huh. Does Chris know?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Justin?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Kelly?"

"Why don't you ask her?" There's a definite edge to Lance's voice, and he's clutching his fork so tightly his knuckles are starting to whiten. 

"No, sorry. Sorry. None of my business, I know. I just. I can't even begin to imagine how you kept this a secret for so _long_."

Lance shrugs. "We did everything but send out engraved invitations, C. It was hardly a secret."

"But you guys aren't exclusive, right? 'Cause, cat, I've seen you getting with friendly with other dudes, and, well, there's Jesse, and I'd hate to see you cheating on Joe."

Lance doesn't say anything this time, just folds his arms across his chest and looks at JC as like he's waiting for something. JC recognizes that look, it usually precedes rebuke as sharp as knives.

"Sorry. That was out of line. I know you'd never do anything to hurt Joey."

"Fine. Great. I'm so glad I have your blessing. So the  _point_  of all this is, my poor little heart isn't going to be crushed if you hitch up with Chris."

"Right. I see that. Except. Then I guess I just don't understand your problem with my plan."

"Other than the fact that it's asinine, you're ignoring the most important factor. You're talking about Chris.  _Chris_. Symbols and gestures and hints are just not going to work with him. He needs words-"

"But I'm  _talking_  to him. Every  _day_. I call him every day and-"

"Explicit words. Not freaky shit about falling off the universe. Because you really should have figured this out by now, man, but Chris is congenitally incapable of making the first move in a serious relationship. He just can't do it."

"You're wrong, Lance. Chris has  _always_  made the first move. With me, anyway. Always."

"That's just sex."

"Yeah, but-"

"That's just sex. It's not the same thing at all and you know it isn't. Chris doesn't have issues with sex. He sees someone he wants to get naked with and he just goes for it. If he gets shot down, so what? It's just sex. It's not like there's any chance he's ever going to have to go home alone if he doesn't want to. But anything more? Scares the living shit out of him. It doesn't matter how many hints you drop or how many times you bend over for him, if you don't tell him you want more, that's all you're ever going to get."

"So, you're saying he's incapable of having a relationship that isn't just about sex?"

"No."

"Are you saying he's only interested in one night stands?"

"No."

Are you saying he's better off alone?"

"No." 

"Are you saying he's still fucked up about the thing with Dani? That he's like, permanently scarred?"

"No."

"Then what  _are_  you saying, Lance?"

"I'm not speaking in code, for fuck's sake. I'm  _saying_  you need to  _ask_  him. I'm  _saying_  if you don't you're going to be having sex with him once a year for the next fifty years. I'm  _saying_  he's always going to be too scared to be the one to take that risk."

"Hmm." JC tosses this around in his brain for a few minutes, thinks about everything he knows about Chris, about how far his plan has gotten him so far. "Well. Okay, fine. Supposing I see your point, which maybe I kind of do. A bit. What if I ask and he freaks out? I mean, I don't do that kind of shit very well either, you know. In case you hadn't noticed, it's not like I'm the frickin' poster boy for happy long-term relationships over here."

"He won't freak out."

"But what if he does?"

"He won't. But if he does? Move the fuck on."

"You've talked to him about this, haven't you?"

"If I had, I wouldn't be telling you about it."

"But-"

"Just like I won't repeat anything you've said to me about Chris."

"But I  _want_  you to, man. Fuck. That would make things so much easier."

"Yeah, and if I'd wanted a career in mediation, I would have become a hostage negotiator. Look. This is your problem. I'm just telling you how to fix it, and that's all I'm doing."

They argue about it over a second pot of coffee, or rather JC tries to argue, but apparently Lance is finished with the discussion because he just shrugs every time JC introduces a new point and says, "Yes, well, you know what I think." JC finally gives up when Lance's voice starts sounding pinched and impatient, and they spend the rest of the morning catching up on families and favourite manicurists and other people's sex lives. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

For the rest of the afternoon, JC broods about the relative merits of Lance's advice and his own plan. By evening, he's accepted that Lance almost definitely knows what he's talking about, because Lance usually does. He picks up the phone about thirty times to call Chris, but can't quite bring himself to dial. What's he going to say? It's all very well for Lance to natter on about being direct and just asking for what you want. It's easy for him. He has Joey. And Joey's stupid plan probably worked with Lance, just like it did with Kelly. 

He pulls out his notebook to help him get his thoughts in order, so he doesn't' make a complete fool of himself when he finally does get hold of Chris. The next time he glances at his watch, it's past midnight and all he's written in the notebook are three poems, one about hairy arms and the other two about having sex when you've had too much coffee. He stares at the phone for what feels like five minutes but turns out to be closer to an hour. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just  _do_  it," he mutters to himself, grabbing the phone and punching Chris' number in before he can chicken out again. "Just fucking do it."

"Mm, yeah, what?"

"Chris?"

"C?"

"Yeah. I, um."  _Just do it. Just do it. Just do it._ "Is this a bad time?"

"No, dude. It's fine." Chris yawns noisily, makes a few throat clearing sounds and yawns again. "Wassup?"

"I just." JC listens to the silence stretch out between them like fishing line, imagines it leaving his phone and floating along the tide to Chris' phone, wrapping itself around the two of them, and it's a cozy feeling, this feeling of being connected even when nothing is being said.

"Did you just call to breathe at me, or was there something you wanted to say? If you just want to breathe, that's cool, but let me know so I can go back to sleep, 'kay?"

"Oh, sorry. Sorry. I called because, " _do it, do it, do it_ , "Well, I've given this a lot of thought, and, and, I think." Shit. He can't do this. "I think. Dude, I think there's a prowler in my house."

" _What?_ A prowler? Fuck. You call the cops?"

"Um, well. Not yet."

"Your security company?"

"Uh-"

"Jesus fuck, man! Call the god damned cops! Right now!"

"Yeah, okay, but. I was kind of hoping maybe you'd come over."

"Dude, I'm in  _Orlando_. By the time I get there, you're going to be tied up in your closet and all your shit's going to be in the back of a truck heading for Canada."

"Oh, no. No. I'm in Orlando, Chris. Didn't Lance tell you?"

"Lance? Isn't he in Mississippi? Look, whatever. I'm on my way. Call the cops right now or I'll slap the ever loving fuck out of you when I get there."

Well, that's just perfect. Chris is on his way, and he's tired and grumpy and worried, and he's going to arrive expecting to find a sea of blue uniforms swarming all over JC's shrubbery hunting for thieves and possible kidnappers. He's going to be so pissed off, he'll probably never even speak to JC again, let alone be his boyfriend. Lance is right. He's an idiot.

A few minutes later, the door flies open and Chris leaps into the foyer wearing orange and green striped pyjama bottoms, a purple t-shirt with what look like teeth marks in the left arm pit, and no shoes. He's swinging a tire iron above his head and his eyes are fierce and he looks hot as hell. In the good way.

"Whoa, wait, watch that thing!" JC leaps back from the doorway, slamming his hip into the hall table in his haste to get out of range. "Fuck! Ow! Damn it Chris, that fucking hurt!"

"Where are the cops, man? Aren't they here yet? Why the fuck am I paying taxes if you can't even get a cop when you're being murdered in your bed?"

"Um."

"You complete tool. You still haven't called them, have you? What the hell are you thinking? You could have been killed, man. Killed dead!"

"Well, not really. I mean, I would have called except, you know. About the prowler? I may have been mistaken." 

Chris lowers the tire iron and narrows his eyes at JC. "Mistaken? As in, you thought you heard something but you really didn't because it was just your air conditioner kicking in, or mistaken as in you heard something but then you didn't so you figured you were wrong, in which case we should probably have a look around anyway, just in case."

"More like mistaken as in I didn't hear anything and you shouldn't worry about it because the prowler was really more of a metaphor than, like, an actual thief or killer or whatnot."

"A metaphor? A  _metaphor_? You dragged me out of bed and got my adrenaline pumping so bad I thought I was going to have a fucking stroke just for a  _metaphor_? A metaphor for  _what_ , you frickin' spaz?"

"You want some Tea? Hot chocolate? Glass of wine, maybe?"

"The prowler was a metaphor for you doing an impression of a Denny's hostess?"

"No. I just thought it might be polite to offer you something, since I got you out of bed and all."

"You're just too damned good to me, Chasez. So, the prowler?"

"Can we maybe change the subject?"

"Not fucking likely."

"Look, there wasn't a prowler. I apologize for misleading you. Now let's just drop it."

"You said the prowler was a metaphor. A metaphor for what?"

"I hate you. And will you put that tire iron down before you hurt somebody? 

"I'll smack you with it if you don't tell me."

"Oh, fuck it. The prowler was a metaphor for, I don't know. Driving."

"I think I'll smack you, anyway.  _Driving?_ Driving  _where_? You're hurting my head, dude."

"Just, whatever. Driving. You know how when you get behind the wheel of a car really late at night? And you're out on the highway, and there's almost no one else on the road? And you start driving really, really fast, and then something happens in your head, there's this, like, shift in your brain, and it's like you're part of the car and the car's part of you, and it's like this total perfect rush? Even better than drugs?"

"Um, okay, yeah." 

"Well, then."

"Well, then  _what_?"

"Well, then, that's the metaphor."

"Well, then, you're a moron. That doesn't make any sense at all. None. Do you even know what a metaphor  _is_?"

"Of course I do. Maybe I didn't go to college like some people but I know what a fucking metaphor is. And it does too make sense. You're just being obtuse."

"Then explain it to me. How does a prowler become a metaphor for driving?"

"Uh. Oh. Yes, I see your point. I guess maybe it's a bit more complicated than that. Okay, say driving is, like, a metaphor for something you really, really want to do, but the only way you can actually do what you want to do is to do this other thing, which is, like, you know, calling your friend and telling him someone's trying to break into your house. Then the prowler would be a metaphor not so much for driving as for, um, a car key maybe? Yeah. That works, I think. You get it?"

"Head still hurts, dude. So, the thing that you really, really want to do would be . . .?"

"You."

"You want to do  _me_?" Chris snickers. "Cool. Go to town, man." He flops down onto the carpet, spreading his arms and legs wide and executing a couple of lewd pelvic thrusts. "Next time, though, could you maybe just ask?"

"No, that's not it."

"Oh, terrific. Thanks so much." He hauls himself back up into a sitting position and glares at JC. "Could you maybe make me that hot chocolate, then? I might as well get  _something_  out of this."

"No, no. You're missing the point. Again. Of course I want to do you," JC says, kneeling in front of Chris and stroking his knees reassuringly. "I always want to do you. It's just. What I  _really_  want is for us to be, like, together."

"Yeah, okay."

"No, I mean  _together_  together. Like Joe and Kelly. And Lance. Like Joey and Kelly and Lance. Except just you and me."

"Sure."

"I mean, we wouldn't even have to be totally exclusive if that's not what you want, but I want us to be, you know, a thing."

"Okay, sure."

"That's it? Just 'sure'?"

"You were maybe expecting me to get down on one knee and propose?"

"Well, no."

"Good. Because I think lying on my back and waving you toward my important bits was just as meaningful. But if you're planning on whining like a little girl about it all night, I could be possibly convinced."

"That really won't be necessary. It's just. You  _could_  be a bit more enthusiastic about this. Or act a bit more, I don't know-"

"Surprised?" 

"No."

"Grateful?"

" _No_."

"Delighted?"

"No. Well. Actually, yes. This was really hard for me, you know. Being the one to say all this shit.  _Really_  hard. You think you're the only one with relationship issues?"

"You think it was easy for  _me_? Eight fucking years waiting for you to step up? Jesus porkin' Christ, man, a guy could get a complex."

"You've wanted this for eight  _years_?"

"To hook up for real, you mean? Like boyfriends? Fuck no. That's just in the last few months. No, dude, I'm just talking about sex and waiting for you to make up your spazzy mind about whether you were interested or not."

"Oh, hey. I always wanted to sleep with you, Chris. Always. And anyway, Lance said you didn't have issues with sex. He said when you want someone you just go for it."

"It may have escaped your notice, but sometimes Lance talks out of his ass. Although, fine, in this case, I guess he's mostly right. Because, if you recall, I  _did_ go for it. Repeatedly. In spite of a distinct lack of encouragement from you."

"What lack of encouragement? I slept with you every time you hit on me."

"Well, gee, thanks so much. Your charity was much appreciated."

"Oh, shut up. That's not what I meant at all. Besides, you want to talk charity, you only ever slept with me to cheer me up."

"That's just stupid. What do I look like, Mother fucking Theresa?"

JC snickers. "I'm pretty sure that's not how Mother Theresa cheered people up, Chris."

"What? Oh, I guess not. I'm probably going to hell just for even saying that. So, if you thought I was just sleeping with you to cheer you up, which I don't know where the fuck you'd ever get an idiotic idea like that anyway, you big flake, then what? It never occurred to you that  _I_  might need cheering up?"

"Well, sure, but that's not how I cheer people up. When someone's feeling down, I do other stuff. Like rub their back or make tea or sing songs to them."

"Whereas I, apparently, nail them to the mattress. I'm just that sensitive."

"Oh, fuck off."

Chris pokes him in the stomach and pouts at him. "Well, I could certainly use some cheering up right now, I tell you. And I'm you're boyfriend now, so you've got, like, obligations." 

  
"You want a back rub?"

"No."

"You want some tea?"

"No, and I don't want to hear you sing, either." He reaches for JC's hand, lifting it to his mouth. "Let me say it again, nice and slow for all the dorks in the room. I want you. To cheer." Chris bites JC's thumb, not very gently, licks his palm until it's shiny wet with spit , then slides JC's hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. "Me up. Oh, fuck, yeah, just like that."

JC laughs as Chris sprawls back on the carpet, making himself comfortable. "We could go upstairs, you know," he says, squeezing Chris' dick affectionately. "To my bedroom."

"Nah, I'm good. This is more convenient anyway, 'cause I'm probably going to want that hot chocolate when we're done." He reaches up to grab hold of the curls at the back of JC's neck and pulls him down until their mouths are almost touching. His other hand is moving over JC's body, unbuttoning his shirt, caressing his ribs and stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans. "Unless, of course, you're worried about your carpets."

"No, no. Here's fine," JC gasps. "It's perfect."

Before he stops thinking altogether, JC is able to form two coherent thoughts. The first is that Chris was right. Lance does talk out of his ass sometimes, because JC's plan has totally worked, in spite of all the nasty things Lance had to say about it. The second is that Chris probably isn't going to be happy when he finds out he's going to have to do a 7-11 run for the hot chocolate JC's promised him. 

The End

Feedback much appreciated. Please leave a comment or email me at solafiamma@gmail.com.


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